


Against the Tide

by forloveisofthevalley



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: "its a metaphor Gus", Alcohol, And Athena is at like George Eliot levels of clingy, Crete, Dionysus is basically an alcoholic, Everyone Cheats On Everyone, F/F, F/M, God I hated that fucking book and yes i cried but WHATEVER SO DID EVERYONE, I feel like I got off track here, Odysseus is kind of a dick tbh, Oh yeah Hephaestus has sexbots, PROUST IS USED AS A METAPHOR THOUGH SO IVE REDEEMED MYSELF, Persephone hates her husband, Poseidon cheats on his wife, Taylor Swift is mentioned but this isnt RPF i promise, That are like Scarlett Johansson in her, Unrequited Love, WATER IS USED AS A METAPHOR QUITE OBVIOUSLY, and is kind of a bitch about Aphrodite's cheating on her, anyway, as is The Fault in Our Stars, cant think of anything else, everyone has Twitter and Kik bc Im trash, everyone in this is really fucked up actually, great movie, if this seems like an angsty teenage girl wrote this its bc one did, like Aphrodite has no purpose in life, ok im done, slight - Freeform, slight Athena/Aphrodite, that counts as a warning, uh, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forloveisofthevalley/pseuds/forloveisofthevalley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aphrodite is blessed.<br/>She’s more than blessed.<br/>She’s #blessed.<br/>That’s not a pun or a reference to her divine heritage or anything; she just genuinely is.  She’s beautiful and she’s smart and the water is extra-calm whenever she throws a beach party — which, given the absolutely gorgeous weather Olympus has been graced with as of late, is three times a week — and she’s never been in an unrequited romantic relationship because everyone absolutely loves her.<br/>Well, almost everyone.</p><p>ALTERNATIVELY: Subversion of a classic epic poem that really could've been solved with Google Maps.  Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Tide

Aphrodite is blessed.  
She’s more than blessed.  
She’s #blessed.

That’s not a pun or a reference to her divine heritage or anything; she just genuinely is. She’s beautiful and she’s smart and the water is extra-calm whenever she throws a beach party — which, given the absolutely gorgeous weather Olympus has been graced with as of late, is three times a week — and she’s never been in an unrequited romantic relationship because everyone absolutely loves her.

Well, almost everyone.

It’s a Friday afternoon and the weather is hella sunny so, of course, they’re all on the beach, and Dionysus just brought in this really obscure ambrosia from Crete so major props to him, and Apollo is blasting the newest The Weeknd song and it’s so catchy that the stupid pun Hermes makes — “Cheers to the freakin’ weekend!” while Persephone laughs like he’s just said the wittiest thing of all time since her husband is walking by — doesn’t even bother her. That much.

Everyone is having like, a super chill, awesome time.

Almost everyone.

Because someone comes out and immediately the sky darkens and the water becomes turbulent and The Weeknd is replaced with the morose wail of Lana Del Rey and Aphrodite doesn’t even have to look to know who’s arrived.

Athena sets up camp just so far that it’s clear she’s not a part of the squad — but not far enough that her presence could be interpreted as anything but a pathetic cry for attention — and spreads out a beach chair far and wide, dropping her towel to the sand and revealing her frumpy monokini with absolutely no cut-outs. She plops herself down with all the stiffness of her personality, and she takes out a pair of sunglasses — only they’re not cute sunglasses; they’re, like, practical ones — and turns to a folded page of a worn copy of the first volume of In Search of Lost Time and some total buzzkill, maybe Hephaestus, is all like “Let’s get back to the warfront, everyone,” even though Troy’s like, basically won by now, hello, but everyone leaves and Aphrodite has just had it.

She stalks over to Athena’s chair as much as someone walking through sand can, and she forgets to mourn the grains of sand that situate themselves in her new silver Chanel flip-flops she’s so pissed.

Only she doesn’t act it, because here’s the thing —

“If your artificially-blonde hair doesn’t stop obfuscating my Proust,” Athena snaps, and Aphrodite can’t see her gray eyes behind the sunglasses but internally prides herself on how hard Athena must be glaring already, “I’ll throw you back into the sea from whence you came.”

Aphrodite shoots her a cloying smile in response. “I know you’re jealous of my hair, Thenie––”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—but I happen to think that frigid secretary brunette looks lovely on you.”

“Aw, thanks, almost as lovely as backhanded compliments don’t sound on you.”

Athena returns to her book casually, like she’s won, and maybe it’s that look of victory that reminds Aphrodite that they’re alone because everyone else is down on the warfront, and that Greece, Athena’s side, has been steadily getting creamed for at least a year now (thank you, Thetis) while her side, Troy, has been raking in victories like Helen does suitors.

“You know what doesn’t sound lovely, Thenie?” Aphrodite continues on, ignoring the fact that the pause is too great and it’s been too long and her words would’ve carried more malice if she’d responded immediately. “The sound of your soldiers losing.”

Athena looks up, removes her sunglasses, and rolls her mascara-lacking eyes so hard Aphrodite momentarily thinks she’s sprained something. “It’s one battle, Aphrodite; surely you know the difference between that and actual war by now. Gods know you’ve started enough of them.”

“At least I’m doing something; all you do is read about swans.”

Athena looks down at her book, and back at Aphrodite, and down at her book again.

“Is that what you really think Swann’s Way is about? Oh my—”

She stops just before a slight chortle escapes her mouth and rapidly tampers down the smile threatening to break through, and Aphrodite might wonder why if not for the booming voice from the earth below they hear next.

“I seek the wisdom and council of the gray-eyed maiden.”

It’s a prayer from a soldier — Greek, based on his accent — nothing so remarkable, nothing that renders Athena’s immediate, hasty departure from her chair and her Proust and her swans. For whatever reason — maybe she’s curious or maybe she’s just bored — Aphrodite follows.

Athena’s at the Greek camp, perched behind the shoulder of the soldier whose prayer she’s chosen to answer. And Aphrodite’s curious because this is Athena, of all people; she doesn’t get riled up or concern herself with the affairs of mortals like the rest of them, she’s never even had any children and she doesn’t know what it means to live in the now and forget time and just love.  
Love.

And suddenly it’s all so simple because here’s the thing about Aphrodite: she’s gorgeous and she throws awesome parties and she’s beloved, yeah, but she’s also smart. She sleeps around, but not with anyone important like Zeus — well, that’s mostly so she won’t have Hera plotting her downfall for the rest of eternity — and she’s let herself fall in love and be exposed and have her heart broken because she sees others, like Persephone for example, close themselves off and gradually grow reserved and cold and distant with each passing day, and she knows that when they eventually can’t take it anymore and let the rivulets break their dams they’ll get lost in the torrent and sliced open by the rocks and they won’t recover.

There’s a reason Persephone never laughs with her husband. And there’s a reason Athena answers this soldier’s prayer.

Because he’s not injured and it’s nothing so dire, really; he merely wants her to look over Greece’s strategy for the next day, and when Athena comments favorably and offers the promising hope of changing their tides against the Trojans he grins and offers her an apple and she actually giggles.

Athena never giggles.

And Aphrodite just imagines how easy it would be, a simple arrow to the back, Athena wouldn’t even feel a thing, and it’s not as if she’s so far off from falling in love already and is it really so terrible that Aphrodite wants to see the current swallow her whole, wants her to know what it’s like to never be the first one with a witticism ready and to be the one throwing parties, not the one invited to them —

Her son shows up before Aphrodite even summons him, and she gets a sort of perverse, backwards thrill — no maternal pride here; she’s not that old — at watching his arrow pierce Athena square in between her shoulder blades.

“Excellent work, darling,” Aphrodite praises, and ignores the feeling that once again, she’s set something catastrophic in motion.

Athena drops the now-eaten apple to the floor, and Aphrodite leaves before she can see what it says.

* * *

 

The soldier’s name is Odysseus, and Aphrodite only knows this because all of a sudden he’s ninety percent of Athena’s Twitter feed. He’s the king of Ithaca, but his wealth is not in his land or power but in his wit, and Aphrodite would actually pride herself on a match well made — if mourning the loss of Athena’s downfall — if not for the healthy, loving union he shares with his wife, the result of which is a pre-adolescent boy who excels in all things princely.

A wife and son conspicuously absent from Athena’s timeline.

Most of her time is now spent at the warfront, unsurprisingly — Greece has started to win again, with her expertise — perched on his shoulder like a raven — no, like an owl — offering this and that and transforming him from a bright, slightly-above-average soldier into hero, into a legend.

He’s read that stupid book about swans too because of course he has, and he also has something against The Weeknd and yet he’s on Twitter and Instagram and even Kik so of course Athena makes sure her social media presence is on point or fleek or whatever it means to look like she’s above everyone.

Before Hades and Persephone, Aphrodite unequivocally believed opposites attract; that tenet is the sole reason she married Hephaestus. But now, with Athena so happy — and with Persephone mournful and acrimonious as the pomegranate she swallowed, and with Hephaestus spending less and less time with Aphrodite at home and more in his forge with that artificial intelligence he’s been working on whose body is silver while her own is gold and whose voice sounds suspiciously like Scarlett Johansson’s — she isn’t as certain.

Because Athena is in love, she’s sure of it, and it’s quite strange. She glides — no, floats — all through Olympus on the rare occasion she can actually be found there and perpetually hums to herself and actually smiles. Aphrodite keeps waiting for her to be swept away but so far she’s swimming like Michael Phelps before the drug scandal.

It’s strange, but not unpleasant.

Because she’s actually nice to Aphrodite now; she explains that Swann is a person and not a swan without a trace of irony and helps her bake baklava one Sunday when they’re both free, and they get covered in honey and bathe in the sea and splash each other and then post the entire debacle on Instagram and when Odysseus likes the pictures Athena squeals, actually squeals, and celebrates by inviting Aphrodite to go buy a bikini with her the next day. They brunch together semi-regularly just above the warfront, commenting on the soldiers and their technique (“I taught him to grip the spear like that,” Athena proudly asserts one Wednesday afternoon while they watch Odysseus impale a young Trojan) and Athena protests halfheartedly but starts coming to Aphrodite’s parties and when she forgoes Swann’s Way in favor of the music and the sun and the sea she returns that night freckled and tanned.

And Aphrodite doesn’t really know if she wants Athena to crash anymore, doesn’t know if she wants to watch her body tossed back and forth like a piece of fish until she’s writhing and spit back up onto the cracked, dry earth. She wants her to stay in the sea, the same one Aphrodite rose from as a child — not as the nubile young woman she is now, despite popular belief — the same one that sent her to Olympus where she was welcomed with all open arms except for those of that one girl reading The Feminine Mystique in the corner, the one who also had had an unorthodox birth (“You popped out of a head!” Aphrodite exclaimed, “Wow, that must be why you’re so smart!” while Athena utterly balked), the one who she wants to befriend and the one who, for whatever reason, absolutely despises her.

She doesn’t want to see the pure, unadulterated hatred that crosses Athena’s face whenever Odysseus doesn’t ask for her, the way when, as she scrolls through her feed and Odysseus mentions his wife and child, she grows cold and dark and her eyes are so dark they look almost black, and she says something like “Go away Aphrodite and do something that doesn’t revolve around partying” and Aphrodite remembers and wonders if getting swallowed whole by the current would be a suitable alternative because when Athena gets like this, it’s hard to think of anything worse.

But mostly she wants her to swim with the sea, not against it, and be happy.

Which is why she reacts the way she does one Tuesday night when Poseidon texts her wife out, u up? ;). She responds with a winky face of her own and changes into her favorite high-waisted bikini from Anthropologie and meets him on the beach, and some of his wet sand finds its way into her bikini bottoms while they embrace but she doesn’t care because the moon is shining so bright it’s almost gold and she doesn’t even care if judgmental frigid Artemis is up there watching because she’s having fun and she’s thriving and healthy and not closed up by a dam, she’s open.

Shortly after they lie side-by-side, the sun beginning to rise and accentuating the reddish golden tones of her hair. And they’re in that split-second moment when the magic of night hasn’t quite faded and the burning of day is still soft and gentle when Poseidon says what he says.

“Greece is going to win. Soon.”

Aphrodite doesn’t respond; everyone has witnessed the battles and this is common knowledge by now. Still, she raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in question.

“He will leave,” Poseidon carries on, and it’s early her brain is working at half its capacity and she doesn’t quite —

“Oh,” she breathes out. The sun is watery and halfway into the sky and some of it trickles down into the ocean.

“Yes.”

“For … for her?” she wrinkles her nose in distaste.

Poseidon doesn’t answer.

She leaps from the beach in a hurry, faster than Athena ever has and ever will for Odysseus because she has to warn her, she has to protect her from the rocks and the wounds, she has to make sure the impact never happens and she has to keep her floating on with the tide, not against it, has to keep her content and oblivious and safe —

She hears the triumphant cheers, the battle hymns promulgated at deafening levels, and when she looks down to Earth she sees the men sailing across the land on the broken horse like it’s a boat. To one side are two rakish, slightly brutish Greeks — Helen’s husband and brother-in-law, Aphrodite registers dimly, both not nearly as handsome as Paris, not even close — and to the other is Odysseus. Athena stands tall and proud behind, her elegant, newly-polished — they’d gone for manicures the previous day — hand resting delicately, lovingly, on his shoulder.

Her smile is almost wide enough to hide the tears leaking from her eyes.

Almost.

Poseidon joins the scene and casually drapes an arm across Aphrodite’s shoulder, and she might shrug it off — any intimacy she might have felt the previous night is long gone — if not for her next idea.

“You must promise me,” Aphrodite instructs, speaking softly, conspiratorially, so Athena can’t hear, “to do whatever it takes to keep him from home.”

“You mean from his wife and child.”

Aphrodite doesn’t elaborate. She can feel Poseidon’s smirk and acts on her desire to shrug him off.

“I’ve never seen you love someone like this before,” Poseidon idly comments, but before Aphrodite can turn to ask what he means or, more importantly, who he means he’s gone and all that’s left is the watery white foam of the sea.

* * *

 

Three years pass and with each, Athena’s love grows stronger. Aphrodite watches the epic Snapchat story unfold as Athena rescues Odysseus from soporific poppies, vengeful Cyclopes, cannibalistic soldiers and morose spirits and enticing sirens and, of course, Circe. Maybe it’s just the lighting of the screen of Aphrodite’s rose-gold iPhone, but they don’t look particularly pleased to be safe.

“Power,” Circe wolfishly grins in a way that entirely clashes with her foundation the next afternoon while they sip mimosas on Aphrodite’s porch. Athena is with Odysseus — when is she not — and Persephone is with Hades, and Poseidon is with his wife and Hermes and Apollo and Ares are Gods know where and in all her years on Olympus Aphrodite has never seen it look so desolate, so barren. The golden clouds are a pale, urine-y yellow and she swears a tumbleweed blows by but it could just be the wind.

Or Hephaestus working on his fembots out back.

“Power,” Circe asserts again, loudly, as if she’s summed up the world in that single word. “Why else does a woman charm a man — literally?”

Aphrodite might chortle into her mimosa if feeling particularly agreeable or polite. She isn’t.

“Whatever this is, transforming men into literal swine — a pathetic attempt at actualizing a metaphor, perhaps — I doubt it has to do with power.”

“You’re right,” Circe sighs dramatically, swishing her drink back and forth and steadying it just before a drop spills into Aphrodite’s garden. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

She cackles, actually cackles, and when Aphrodite swallows she savors the acrid burn of the orange juice to restrain herself.

Because Aphrodite is the goddess of beauty and intimacy and sea creatures and love, and she isn’t ashamed of that; she owns that, but she’s also been unlucky in love and been heartbroken and made awful romantic decisions, and there’s a reason she’s slept with practically everyone but her husband and there’s a reason she hasn’t changed and there’s a reason she meddles and there’s a reason she still can’t look at nets without blushing and checking to ensure her clothes are still on, and there’s a reason that deep down she feels intense shame and there’s a reason she perpetually feels like she’s pushing on and on toward something dark and unknown, there’s a reason she always feels like she’s about to crash —

But it isn’t power. Nothing about her decisions — not her infidelity, not her meddling — has ever been.

The truth is, she doesn’t quite know the reason. But later that night when Athena returns, and they decide to invite Persephone because it’s nearing the end of the summer and there’s only so many days left she has of warmth and grass and flowers before she returns to dark pits and grasping ghosts —

“Why do you love him?” Persephone asks from the pink carpet of Aphrodite’s bedroom, bluntly but not unkindly, popping a large marshmallow into her mouth while Aphrodite tries to stop The Fault in Our Stars from playing on a loop. And she doesn’t quite know what she’s expecting Athena to answer with — shared interests, common experiences, a mutual penchant for long, depressing volumes about involuntary memory or whatever — but she’s expecting something profound and something life-changing, something that will reassure her that she’s not wrong to like the beach and other men and that she’s not wrong to want to feel wanted and that she’s not a bad person but mostly she just wants an answer —

And after a moment too long — Persephone’s already moved onto complimenting the carpet while casually wondering if Hephaestus will mind all the racket and it’s so nice that he lets you have this room to yourself; so much peace and quiet — Athena finally answers.

“I don’t know,” she responds, somehow definitively. “I just do.”

No one says much after that, and the next morning when Aphrodite wakes up — an hour before everyone else, great — the movie is still playing.

* * *

 

A week later Athena unfollows Odysseus from every social media platform known to man and Aphrodite tries her phone and her computer and even her iPad, which really isn’t necessary because an hour later Athena shows up at her door with two bags of Hershey’s kisses and that obscure ambrosia from Crete Dionysus likes so much and an actual, physical copy of The Weeknd’s new album, her worn edition of In Search of Lost Time lost to, well, time.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Athena asks. She gestures wildly with her head to indicate all of Olympus, and when she cranes her neck Aphrodite notices her red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

A long, drawn-out moan audibly stretches out of Hephaestus’ forge, and Aphrodite chirps “Let me get my coat!” before Athena can wonder too much about the source.

* * *

 

When Aphrodite was mourning Ares for, like, a day — in all fairness their relationship barely encompassed a week — she literally went to the end of the Earth to get away from him. Aphrodite decides that apparently Athena’s methods of grieving are different — vastly different — while they sip the ambrosia from the craggy rocks of Ithaca.

“He grew impatient,” Athena tells her, unprompted. “He and his crew wished to return home. I brought them to Aiolos, but his winds weren’t enough. At least, not for them.

“The crew tampered with his gifts and set themselves entirely off course just as their homeland came into view. They blamed me.”

Athena doesn’t have to elaborate for Aphrodite to know he believed them.

“Apparently,” Athena lets out a forced laugh — too casual, too nonchalant — “a woman who cares about you and supports you and elevates you and …” her voice breaks off slightly; she swallows, taking a moment to gather herself before continuing, “is not a woman fit to love.”

Aphrodite nods understandably like she knows.

“I just …” Athena trails off. She sighs. She downs nearly a pint of ambrosia in one gulp, a feat even by Dionysus/borderline-alcoholic standards. “I … I’m powerful, and I’m smart and I know that. I couldn’t not know that.”

Aphrodite genuinely laughs.

“And there are worse things, but I didn’t just want to be that. I wanted … I don’t know, at the very least to not feel like I was just drifting — and there was this soldier, this man fighting for something, and the way he looked at me …”

“Like you had all the answers,” Aphrodite prompts, remembering the way everyone her son has pierced, the way Poseidon and Ares and even Hephaestus, hell, the way Paris looked at her. She isn’t as surprised at her own words as she might expect.

Athena is silent for some time, but just before Aphrodite thinks she’s forgotten she speaks again. “I sent him to Calypso.”

Aphrodite winces; Calypso makes Taylor Swift look well-adjusted.

“To show him what obsession really is.”

“And?” Aphrodite prompts.

“He said it would be a step-up from my insanity.”

Aphrodite chuckles; she can’t help it. Athena joins in and before they know it they’re both sprawled out on the rough, inhospitable ground like a bed made of plucked feathers, laughing and laughing and laughing hysterically while ambrosia shoots out of their nasal passages.

After some time, Athena calms down and wipes a tear from her eye.

“Huh,” she murmurs to herself. “And here I thought I was done crying.”

“It’ll get better,” Aphrodite assures, though she herself doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying. “Time will heal all wounds,” she imitates the booming voices of the Fates.

Athena snorts. “Oh really?” She lifts her tunic and turns slightly to expose her back. “Can they get rid of this arrow wound?”

Aphrodite pales. Her mind blanks and sound patches out and all she can register is the sea joining with the sand, over and over and over again.

“Y-you felt that?!” she uncharacteristically blurts out, clapping her hand over her mouth like Athena once did all those years ago, and she prays it was in her mind and the color will return to her face and Athena won’t notice —

But her eyes narrow into black slits like eels, and her face goes cold, stony, like she’s just glimpsed Medusa.

The apple rolls to their feet, and the catastrophe is set into motion.

* * *

 

Ocean. Water water water water all around her, rushing into her ears and stinging her eyes and burning her throat so severely she actually longs for the mimosas and Circe, water water water water water.

That’s what she notices as Athena attempts to drown her.

Originally she blocked out the enraged cry, the insults (“This is why no one needs love, why no one needs you, even your wretched gargoyle of a husband loathes your presence”) as a means of self-preservation; she wouldn’t be able to focus on escape, after all, focus on prying the incensed goddess known for her cleverness and hellbent on ensuring Aphrodite’s demise off of her body with those inherent, ugly truths she innately knows deep down slinking their way back up and flooding her very essence in cold black abyss.

But now, as she goes up and down and up and down and up and down and does her best to blink out the salt and the water, she longs for it. She longs for a time, a world, a period of being where she invests her time in more than matchmaking and partying and Instagram, in more than ambrosia that will eventually rot and songs that will eventually end and gradually fade. She yearns for men who want her for her, not because she’s beautiful and of the sea and they build her up to represent salvation or damnation or whatever else they think they need; she yearns to search for that lost time and find a few brief, fleeting fragments to glimpse Mme Swann graced, valued, blessed with more than love and flowers. She longs for turbulence and she longs for gray skies, only not really, she actually loves the nice weather; she longs to meet the little girl reading The Feminine Mystique and reintroduce herself and rise out of the sea all over again. 

But as she sinks she longs for something beyond the men and clothing and u up? ;) and can’t tonight babe; prtying w/sum GORGEOUS trojan babes, thnk one’s ur daughter hahah whoops texts and sand and stars and even Athena.

She longs to idly swing on her porch back and forth with no one around for comfort, for reassurance, for solace but her mimosa — she longs to not need it. She longs for quiet and she longs for peace and she longs not even for happiness but for contentment. If she must crash into the rocks, she would at least like to do so with her eyes closed.

Because there’s a reason out there, somewhere, and more than she wants to know it she wants to not know, to not want to know, to never — 

She wakes up in a bed of plucked feathers, in a room of elegance and modesty, nothing like the ostentatious displays of opulence she’s used to on Olympus. An adolescent boy — twelve perhaps, or maybe thirteen — sits on a sturdy chair by her bed. She doesn’t know who he is; she doesn’t ask.

“I’m Telemachus,” he volunteers, anyway. He drops a worn, leather-bound book on her legs; they’re protected by the blanket, but the impact wouldn’t have hurt even if they were bare.

“Will you read to me?” Telemachus asks.

Aphrodite looks into his face, searching for what, she doesn’t know. He blinks. A stray eyelash is torn lose from the flesh of his eyelid and burrows itself behind his eye. His eye waters but he doesn’t move to rub it, not even as tears begin to leak down his tanned cheeks onto his sturdy, well-worn hands.

“It’s long,” Aphrodite says. “Do you know when it ends?”

Telemachus shakes his head, and she thinks that for a moment he might cry, but instead he grins. “I don’t care. Think we can finish it before my dad gets home?”   
His grin stretches further but she isn’t worried it will break.

Aphrodite pauses a moment. “I don’t know. We can try.”

“Well then.” Telemachus’ grin evolves into a soft smile. “No time like the present.”

With strong, clean, unmanicured hands and a strength she isn’t aware she possesses, Aphrodite picks the book up from off her legs. She clears her throat and listens to the sound resonate throughout the room like a battle cry.

And then, she begins.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're also Classics trash and or want to let me know how much you despised this: forloveisofthevalley.tumblr.com


End file.
